Broken utopia

The modern gothic withering
 sun that shines, on its pox ridden skin.  
B movie moonlight  
from slightly bent streetlights.  
Patchwork of potholes,  
silently waiting for the unwilling wheel  
the IED that can cripple steel.  
Parading graffiti, artist's fading handle  
long gone, on his BMX bikes saddle,  
like some Chinese lettering  
identity smudged and degrading.  
 
Impudent weeds grabbing a foothold,  
the victory of thorns freehold.  
 Brown rust eked on by the trash cans,  
thoroughfares in desolation and envy,  
Prostitutes and pimps,  
cracked red lanterns glint,  
the ATM where desire lays pinned.  
Clink the lights from the liquor store  
A sign on the church, it hangs  
"Faith is the ever giving hand"  
 chained and padlocked,    
pigeons its only flock.  
 
 Smell of fast food, Doner's stuck on wooden skewers,  
 fat burgs choking Up the sewers.  
Aspirations of the 1970 mall,  
waiting for the wreaking ball.  
Architecture its esteem  
decay, as time worms, its ragged frieze.  
Dirty finger nails of existence,  
and hope, sipped from a brown paper bag.  
Commerce is the grunt and thrust.  
The crumbling edges blurred  
come, black crows that peck the cracking kerb

The ghetto sits like a tattered hobo
just small change in its begging bowl